The Green Jacket/Chapter 24
XXIV
Tom Corbin looked up as she came in. "See here, Milly, I've been thinking about what you said. Sit down. You look tired," he added kindly.
She took the chair he offered. "What was it I said?" she asked.
"The other day, you know," Tom nodded.
"The other day?" Her brow wrinkled. . . . What was it she had said to Tom the other day? It seemed to her it was months—years—since she had seen Tom.
He regarded her kindly. "You said sin was a disease," he quoted impressively.
"Yes? Well—it is." She leaned back in her chair. She had placed her green jacket on the back and it made a comfortable rest for her head.
Tom looked at her expansively. "I believe you're right!" he said. "It sounded all foolishness to me then. But it's kept coming back—till I've got a hunch you may be right, you know!"
She smiled a little wearily.
"If it's really a disease, we ought to be able to cure it," he said thoughtfully.
"We can."
"And prevent it," he added.
She sat up. The tired look left her face. "We can, Tom!" she said swiftly. "And it's better worth doing than anything in the world!"
"Yes. How would you begin?" he asked cautiously.
"I'd like to begin with their ancestors!" she laughed. "Most of them come of lying and thieving stock—or, anyway, from ancestors that have a taint of white lies in their blood. . . . All this experimenting with white mice and black mice is well enough," she said quickly. "But what if two white liars marry and all of the descendants with black hair are black liars?"
Tom laughed out. "Go on!" he said.
She nodded. "Why don't we take hold of things a little nearer by? We clear up the slums, but we don't touch the slums of their minds. We're cowards. We don't dare teach morals in the schools. . . . What children need in school is not so much practical arithmetic; they need a little practical living. You had examples when you went to school, I suppose, about buying bonds at so much and selling at so much, and what percent did you make?" She glanced at him.
Tom grinned. "I just guess I did! It was a green book we studied 'em out of," he said thoughtfully.
"Ever need them since?" asked Milly quietly.
"Lord, no! I don't buy and sell. I pay Baker to do it for me!"
"If you had had exercises in lying, it would have been some use to you, perhaps." Milly's eyes were dreamy.
"Exercises in lying!" retorted Tom. "I didn't need 'em!"
"Yes, you did," said Milly. "You don't half know how to lie. You're a regular bungler at it! . . . You could call them exercises in truth, if you wanted to. But 'lying' would sound more attractive to a boy."
"You bet it would!" said Tom. "Or a man, either," he added.
"It's a little stupid, I think"—Milly was threshing it out—"not to use a thing a boy is as keen about as he is about lying to help educate him with. Can't you see a class of boys that have been going to sleep over fractions, just come all alive over an exercise in practical lying?"
Tom chuckled.
"Let 'em try it for a while," said Milly. "Let them watch out for lies for a day—see how many examples, different kinds, they can bring to class—the way they bring flowers. The one that brings the largest collection has his name on the board—or has a badge to wear home."
"I say!" said Tom. His face considered it. "Watch folks around 'em—their fathers and mothers?"
Milly nodded. "Everybody—the minister, the grocer, the newspaper reporter"
"Whew!" whistled Tom.
"That's their real education, isn't it?" said Milly. "That's what they're doing every day, blundering along by themselves, while we teach them how many bricks it takes to build a wall six feet high—allowing a quarter of an inch for mortar, and ten bricks to a row!" Her voice was filled with the scorn of it.
Tom laughed out.
"We spank them for telling lies and hush them up. So they learn to lie in secret. It's disease," said Milly, "shut up inside 'em! We ought to air it, bring it into the light and put truth alongside it. Show them the big and beautiful things that men have done together by being square. Send a class down to study that bridge on Water Street that was put up by jobbery ten years ago. There isn't a boy seven years old that can't see what is happening to it. Instead of having them work out how many tons of concrete it takes for the foundation, let them ask a few questions as to how much concrete can be adulterated and stand up, and how it feels to live in a city where everybody cheats all he can. Talk about lying!" she said with a quick flash of indignation. "Boys love the truth. Look how they play their own games on the square! They have to—bless them! They save their lies for grown-ups, most of them—they watch us and think that's the way we like to play the game!"
She was looking at him severely and he nodded with a little look of guilt.
"Once let 'em get the idea," she went on, "that lying and telling the truth is a kind of game—that goes on all the time everywhere, and every time you sneak you lose a point, and every time you're on the square you make one—and you've got 'em!"
"So you have!" assented Tom with a little thoughtful laugh. "But it won't work."
"You're a back number!" said Milly mildly. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She had had her say, and it had rested her a little. But she was very tired from the strain of the last few days.
Tom looked at her compassionately. "How about the Mason emeralds?" he suggested. "You haven't found anything, I suppose?" He was looking at her cynically with a little superior smile. Milly's theories were all right, but he liked to remind her now and then that it was facts that counted.
"Didn't find anything?" he repeated.
She shook her head. "Nothing to speak of," she replied.
"I told you you'd never find the Mason emeralds!" he chuckled softly.
"Yes, you told me." She sat before him, looking a little meek and very tired.
He regarded her with kindly, tolerant eyes. She seemed suddenly, to his masculine gaze, a frail, pathetic little thing. He felt a swift rush of impatience at the foolishness and the invincible spirit of it—of all women—never knowing when they were beaten!
"See here, Milly. You're used up!"
"I am—a little tired. I believe I am tired!" She relaxed in her chair and leaned her head against the green jacket that hung across the back. The soft wool touched her cheek. The cheek was a little pale.
Tom glanced at the pallor of the cheek and got up and went to a cupboard and mixed something and brought it to her.
"Drink that," he commanded.
She looked at it doubtfully. "Do you think I need"
"Drink it!" said Tom.
She drained the glass meekly and returned it to him.
He sat looking grimly at her tiredness. "I told you you'd never find the Mason emeralds," he commented, swaggering a little.
"I have not seen even a glimmer of the Mason emeralds," she assented soberly.
He gazed at her compassionately and judicially, and his face softened. She was very small and frail. He settled himself in his chair.
"Well, you've failed! I hope you are satisfied." The tone was kindly and tolerant, and she smiled at him.
"Yes, I'm satisfied." A hint of a sigh breathed into the words as she relaxed subtly to them. "I am quite satisfied," she repeated gently.
His look held kindness and worldly wisdom. And for a moment Tom Corbin knew all the serene satisfaction of a successful masculine career. Then slowly something penetrated his complacency—a softening pity held him. . . . And suddenly, before he knew or could stem the tide, the pity was overflowing its bounds—changing to a mysterious force that swept him like a leaf on the wind. Like a mere speck of dust in a whirling cyclone he and his importance were hurled forward, borne in a mighty rush of desire to protect and care for the fragile figure sitting so quietly before him.
Tom Corbin gripped the arms of his chair and little beads of perspiration came to his forehead. He took out his handkerchief and removed them softly. He glanced at the gray figure almost hostilely.
But the softness of the pose and the tired lines of the figure melted him like wax.
He leaned forward.
"Milly!" he said.
She opened her eyes. She seemed to have been half dreaming. It was very restful in Tom's office, in spite of the clatter in the rooms beyond and the noise of the street. Her open eyes gazed at him inquiringly.
"Yes?" she said.
He got up and went to the window and stood for a minute looking down on the hurrying street. He wheeled and came straight to her and stood before her firmly.
"Will you marry me, Milly?—I want you to." He said it simply.
She sat up and pushed back her hair a little.
"Tom!" she said—almost in vexation.
He nodded. "That's what it's come to! I did not expect it!" He laughed a little grimly.
She got up from her chair. "I must go!" she said hurriedly.
"Not till you give me my answer." He moved between her and the exit, and she looked at him with eyes in which the tears were very near the surface.
"Tom!" she said protestingly. "I am so tired!"
He nodded. "That's why I asked you. I want to take care of you! Don't you see, Milly?" He held out his arms in an awkward, tender gesture. "Don't you know how you need me?"
She looked at him severely, almost sternly, and after a moment the arms dropped to his sides.
"But you do need me," he said stubbornly.
She moved toward the door.
He no longer stayed her. His glance followed her quietly.
"When may I come and see you, Milly? You must give me an answer, you know." There was something strong in the quiet assurance of the words, but the tone had lost a little of its happy protectiveness.
She looked back to him, almost wistfully, it seemed.
"Come when you need me—on business," she replied.
And with that she left him.
It was an hour after she had gone that Tom found, fallen on the floor by the chair where she had been sitting, the green jacket.
He stared at it and took it up and held it at arm's length. Then he smoothed it gently—and smiled . . . he would have to send it back—or carry it to her himself.
He stood looking down at the green folds. He could see Milly—the way she would look when she took it from him. He could see her put it on. . . . The gray figure wrapped in its warmth seemed to stand before him, and as he gazed at it his hands almost of themselves seemed to reach out to something. There was no pride in the gesture—only a half-unconscious need in the hands that reached out, and fell to his sides.
He put down the jacket and ran to the telephone and called a number.
"That you, Milly? . . . Yes, it's Tom—at the office. You left something here. I want to bring it to you. Will you be there if I come right up? . . ."
His eyes smiled as they listened. He spoke quickly. "I thought you might need the jacket. . . . And, besides, Milly— Are you there?"
His voice listened. "Yes? Well, stay right there, please, till I come—I need to see you— On business? Oh, no! Only me—Tom Corbin! I need to see you!"
He hung up, and took the green jacket, and held it at arm's length and looked at it with a little grateful smile. Then he opened the door and went quickly out.